Beauty
by kittiexkat
Summary: Takes place during the year that never was. The Master muses on the Doctor's beauty, and why he hates it. One shot.


**Title:** Beauty  
**Author:** Kitty  
**Pairing:** Ten/Saxon  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** This is fanfiction, not part of the actual plot. I do not own the characters, just the idea.  
**Author's Notes:** For Aislinn, my lovely bff I'm sorry because it's a lot shorter than I meant for it to be. D: . Takes place during "the year that never was". This is my first Who fic so please go easy on me. Feedback is loved.

_ba-da-da-dum_

The drumming. That blasted, never-ending drumming. Not even in sleep can he find peace; _especially_ not in sleep. Just unending drum beats that crescendo until he can ignore them no longer. And then he wakes.

Then he wakes, and today, when he rolls over, it isn't Lucy lying next to him. No, today it's the Doctor - _His_ Doctor - who slumbers next to him. He allows his eyes to wander over the beautiful, naked, body that is laid out next to him. And it is beautiful, _heartsbreakingly_ beautiful. That's why he can't look at it, not daily, in any case. The beauty of the Doctor's newest form renders him speechless, makes him incapable of hatred, all the while spawning his hatred even more, and that is why he takes it away. He ages away the beauty because he can't stand to face it, and yet, even aged far past the brink of human death, the Doctor is still beautiful.

He grazes his fingertips along the bare torso of his Doctor, but quickly withdraws his hand when the other Time Lord - the _only_ other Time Lord - stirs. A soft murmur escapes his lips, a simple murmur, just a name, and the Master frowns; the Doctor's sleep is nearly as restless as his own. Nearly.

He watches the Doctor sleep for a while longer, as the sun rises, illuminating his soft skin, and silken hair. As the Doctor stirs closer to waking, he finally leaves the bed, dresses, and slips out of the room. That's how it always is. He is never there when the Doctor rises, and when he returns, it's never simply to talk. It's been the same for the past six months.

He returns a few hours later, after Mrs. Jones has fed the Doctor and left. They do not speak, they never speak at this moment. There is nothing to be said, the Doctor knows what happens now, and he allows it to continue as so.

He'll never admit it, but it's no longer only the drums that disrupt his sleep. The Doctor's cries now invade as well, just as real as they are now, while he screams and writhes on the floor. Some days he wishes the pain could be avoided, other days he loves it, loves that he can hurt the Doctor just as the Doctor's beauty hurts him. No matter how he feels, though, it will always happen those two times every month. Once as he makes the beauty return, the second as he removes it a day later.

"I could do this forever," he whispers when he helps the Doctor into his chair, but the Doctor remains silent. He nearly always does; quite the feat for him, really, but the Doctor doesn't need words. He has eyes. Eyes that say more than words ever could, more than the Master ever wishes to hear. Maybe someday he'll snap, eliminate those eyes, as well. For now, though, he can pretend not to see the message behind the Doctor's gaze. Besides, with out his eyes, how could the Doctor view the suffering and death that has been brought upon his beloved humans?

He gives a mock pout when the Doctor looks at him. "Not talking to me, Doctor?", he asks, raising an eyebrow, "Pity. I do love the effort you have to make to get the sounds out."

"You know what I want to say", the Doctor manages to wheeze out after a moment, and the Master frowns, starting to push the chair out of the bedroom and back to the bridge.

"There's _nothing_ else you want to say to me?" No response. "Well fine. Someone's anti-social today."

Upon arrival, he wheels the Doctor back to his tent, and steps back. "If you won't talk to me, I'm sure Jack will." He smirks at the way his Doctor's eyes darken, though he isn't sure wether it is from jealousy, or fear for his companion.

"Leave him," his voice is as pleading as it can be, given it's restrictions.

"No, I don't think I will." He gives the Doctor a predatory grin, before motioning to the windows. "Keep an eye on things for me."

And with that, he is gone. Until he gets bored of playing with Jack, in any case.


End file.
